Tagged: Short Story

Chapter Six

Wotan raised his arms, T-posing, and his skin became coarse. It had become bark, and Wotan grew and grew, his swollen head projecting forward, his body growing tumorous, expanding along with the wooden nods that split the bark-skin, along with the branches which sprouted leaves of red and green.

Change upon change, cycle upon cycle, Wotan was Yggdrasill, a nexus of myths, and kneeling at the roots was Bard as the next all-father. He opened his shirt, still drenched with rain, which had since ceased to reveal a starry mantle for which Yggdrasill reached out, meaning to touch those echoes of long-gone, distant bodies.

Bard exposed his chest and his old surgical scars. Thought and Memory, Wotan’s ravens, did not wait. Both dove in and clawed their way inside a screaming Bard. They nested within him and lived within him.

He had drunk the nectar, he had sacrificed his eye, he housed within him the elements of the human soul: the building blocks of knowledge, the fountain of art and science. Yggdrasill vanished, and despite his pain, Bard followed.

A confused and hurt receptionist found a broken statue, torn to rubble, glass shards everywhere, ragged clothes and blood. She was nearly sick at the sight of it but could not find the stranger’s body. She returned to her post to call the police, who did not answer, and an ambulance.

The storm had raised the town as if Indra himself had driven his chariot from the heavens to punish the wicked. No bad karma went unpunished that day; buildings had been toppled, cars dragged down the streets like barges.

Women wept for their lost sons, firefighters worked overtime pulling the living and the dead from the sodden ruins. Sirens played without stopping as miserable hosts took to pilgrimage towards high ground.

Angelo, like all good rats, always knew when a ship was sinking. He had been trapped with a host of drug-addled party-goers in a high-rise. The power had run out in the last hour, the toilets had threatened to flood, and the party people were thoroughly bummed out. Angelo skipped ship after draining the dregs of a bottle of expensive booze. He made the long descent down those seemingly endless staircases with anger in his heart, curses on his lips, and a bladder he had to stop and empty halfway down.

Not the first time he had relieved himself in a corner he ought not to.

“Stupid elevator,” Angelo muttered, as if the metal cage had a mind of its own. “Stupid shit. Fucking idiots.” Blaming others for his own excesses was intuitive and easy. His stench, his alcoholism and substance abuse, how he had become unable to get an erection, and his own piss splashing and soiling his boots. All these things and more were the fault of others; he was above them, and the world.

He was Angelo and he could do no wrong. Mistakes and consequences were the domains of fools and weaklings. Angelo was smarter than the smartest people he had met and had the insides of a man of steel. His withered muscles were not the product of a sedentary life and poor nutrition, his teeth which had become loose in his gums as of late were just so in his imagination; when his cock went limp it was the whore’s fault for not knowing how to do their job right.

There was something semi-sobering to the cold, moist air drafts and the reverse-Sisyphean exercise of descending those endless stairs. They shook under his feet from the strength of the thunder outside. Angelo stopped when a sound caught his ear, something behind him.

He turned to find a boy. He held a horse plush under one arm and a toy hammer in the other; rhythmically, the boy bounced the hammer on his leg to the thunder and the lightning. His toy horse looked strange, and to Angelo’s blurry vision, it seemed this plush had too many legs for a horse.

“What?” asked Angelo. He had always hated children.

“My father gave me his horse,” the boy said in a strange foreign accent, “and told me I could play with my hammer.”

Angelo spat in disgust. “I’m sure he did. My old man liked watching me play with my hammer too. Have fun with that, little freak.” Angelo resumed his descent, one unsteady step at a time, but the boy’s voice followed him.

“I used to have two goats, but they’re gone now. Mother kept father’s wolves.”

“Shut up!”

“I killed a snake once,” was the last thing Angelo heard the boy say. Rather than risk humiliating himself by stumbling up the stairs to slap the child into silence, he descended, his only light the flashes of lightning.

It seemed the worst of the winds and rain had come and gone, or perhaps he was in the eye of the storm. He was still hit by the cold and rain, but just enough to sober up. Flooded streets and broken buildings, river crossing with rain water up to his calves, Angelo began to realize he needed to find refuge close by.

The cold was eating at him already, his clothes soaking up and becoming heavier. Without the adrenaline, drugs and booze to burn in his gut, the pleasant numbing was turned into a chilling death growing in his bones.

It was when Angelo looked behind him and seemed to see some looming shadow following him that he began to panic. His steps splashed hurriedly across the haunted streets of a town that looked like it had submerged from the river. More than once, Angelo swore he saw massive catfishes break the surface of the rivers, greedy and hungry enough to try and eat a man. Angelo picked his directions at random, pushed back from a path by rubble or sudden thunder making windows shatter and rain glass shards that threatened to gouge the soles of his feet.

Chapter Five

He found what he had expected in such a museum. Uniforms, sabers, guns. Plaques decorated these objects to instruct visitors on the history and meanings of devices and colors, what years they belonged to, and the materials these things were made of.

Despite the black and white pictures and oil paintings, they presented war cleaned, sterile. Numbers of the dead and dying created the effect opposite to what one would expect: a sleepiness, a boredom rather than sadness and outrage at the loss of life. The shameful displays referencing the book burnings, camps and the common valleys appeared to have been temporarily moved, leaving behind only these tame passing mentions. It was left to other museums to fully display these horrors; here more conservative interests had been served.

To some other places were confined the image of the people who sought only to live, to become themselves, to love and grow. At the time, it seemed that the war museum was no place for mourning, or anything that could curb the fever of the next batch of human fodder.  

Bard worked his way through recent centuries into distant eras. An open semi-circular area displayed the Teutonic relics of brass swords and wooden shields, crude spears and mantles of fur, and at the center of it all stood like a monolith, the statue to Wotan.

Runic symbols were carved on the brims of his starry mantle. In one hand he held a spear and in the other a horn from which water spouted into a fountain. Upon each horn of his heavy helmet sat a raven; his long hair and beard were as clouds in a storm. Bard touched his face to feel his five o’clock shadow. He had failed to grow anything more substantial but this much had been enough, until Angelo mocked him for it.

“You look like a teenager.”

Angelo played it off as a joke, but his eyes were ice shards that betrayed the warmth of his body. Bard wasn’t allowed to feel comfortable or relaxed, to lower his guard. There was something of the magician to the act, almost a hypnosis, the power of making Bard believe every sharp cut and piercing thorn was always his own fault, or his imagination.

 Bard rubbed his wrists, haunted by the memory of Angelo’s hands holding them too tight, leaving marks he could feel even after they were gone.

“I know you like it; how about making me feel good for once?

“You’re always so greedy. Why is everything about you?”

There weren’t enough pages in the world to contain the poison poured on Bard’s ear, day and night, driving him mad.

“What good are you,” Bard wondered out loud, “your one good eye turned away from us? All we do is suffer and drag ourselves through the glass shards and the mud.

“I tried to push him away before and always let him back. I’m all alone now, dependent on the kindness of others more than ever before.” Bard held back from spitting at the foot of the statue. “Now you’re coming after me too? Didn’t I bleed enough? Didn’t I shed enough flesh?

Poured my soul into those pages until my veins were dry. What else do you want from me? Spewing your shit on my books isn’t enough? I gave it all.” Tears stung Bard’s eyes. “Now you’re trying to kill me. Why? Because I was weak? Because I wasn’t enough?”

Bard’s voice echoed in the empty hall. Lights flickered and muted thunder sounded outside, lightning flashing its blue hue through the glass. It was like a great hand crushing the poet’s lungs. Bard gagged and released the words from within, shouting:

“Talk to me!”

Thunder exploded with such force it was as if an earthquake had threatened to shake down the museum. Bard’s back arched and he gasped in pain and ecstasy, his mind carried away from his body. On another continent, and across six countries, twelve-year-old boys were armed and made to kill or die. Bard choked on dust and smoke, deafened by screams and blinded by flames. They lived and died, the young soldiers killing and raping like their adult counterparts. Tyrants touched bloody hands to sweat-drenched foreheads and entombed with fake pride:

“You are now a man. My son and pride.”

The tyrant repeated this litany, and behind him came another tyrant, and another in endless succession, rewarding with blood those who survived, and throwing the rotting corpses of the fallen into a ditch, limbs spewing from within the crevice like drowning men desperate not to sink under the waves.

Standing above them, Wotan watched. The one-eyed bastard looked different, his skin darker, his hair longer, his beard beaded. The smoke of his cigar blended with the ashen cloud of war. In his right hand he held a rifle like a long club, or a spear, leaning on it as he grimly monitored the endless slaughter.

“Why are you smiling, you bastard?”

Wotan pointed, and Bard followed the direction of the accusing finger of God to meet a march of unarmed people. They waved white flags, and above them glowed a symbol of two hands holding each other in a sign of brotherhood. One-eye smiled as the flags became red with blood. Without warning, the peace marchers were torn apart under hails of bullets, like gazelles in the mouths of crocodiles, body parts picked mid-air by birds of prey.

And as Bard looked the old man in the eye, the old man simply pointed away again. The world rushed by, red dust, rust, and blood taking to the air as they formed an oceanic tide that smelled of copper. Canon fire made for thunderstorms, war engines like beating hearts illuminated by explosions. From the war marched mechanical hounds, bright burning eyes, scouts for a thousand-thousand armies.

War had no end.

Each time the skies cleared, Bard was allowed sight of the broken world and piled up dead. Trapped amongst them were the dying, their parched throats wheezing cries for help that went ignored. Bard could not look away, his eyes protected only by the unsettled dust; curtains that would part now and again to reveal greater horrors. Atop a hill stood Wotan transformed anew, like a shadow with the burning light of his cigar reflected off his one eye, parting the seas of bloodshed, holding a staff—no, a harpoon— with which he stabbed the ground and shouted:

“From the heart of Hel, I stab at thee!”

Mortally wounded, Gaia screamed and wept blood, that vital substance surging like a geyser, forming a tidal wave that rose so high it threatened to drown all of humanity. Bard wiped the blood from his eyes and saw Wotan changed yet again, a pale corpse-like man, naked but for his mantel decorated with runes and stars, wearing a conic magician’s hat, holding the caduceus in one hand and a small metal globe in the other.

“Bodies are but corn,

One must harvest, scythe in hand.

Within me is the season of reaping.”

“Shut up,” Bard demanded, recognizing the words. He had many more such poems in his anti-war book. A book co-opted by those who exalted war and understood not the mockery, saluting the work, stealing it from its context, denying its author his identity.

“I am a maestro,

And this, my symphony of blood.”

“I was mocking you,” Bard shouted at the apparition. “Everything you represent; I never meant for any of this.”

Splashing in the blood, descending to Bard until they were at eye level, Wotan pushed the sphere through the air. This held itself suspended facing Bard. Not a globe, the world, but a demon core.

The following blast devoured sight and sound in a white flash. By the time Bard had recovered and he stood again, his sight and hearing recovered, he found himself back at the museum. The statue had been crushed to rubble, the glass ceiling had caved in, and the rain and wind threatened to drag him asunder. Wotan himself stood unarmed, wearing only his cloak, two dark figures circling the air.

“Enough, enough!” Bard spewed bile and spit. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”

Wotan keened madly and ran to Bard, in a room so briefly ago filled with weapons from wall to wall, Bard found himself lacking for weapons. He slipped and fell to the ground as the mad god threw himself on top of Bard, hands clawing at Bard’s neck and face.

Bard pushed Wotan from him but could not dislodge the god from atop him. They scrambled across the rain-sodden floor, and cutting himself on something sharp, Bard screamed and hit Wotan across the face with a bloodied hand. Wotan recoiled, more surprised than hurt, and in a flash of a moment, Bard realized what he had cut himself on. He drew it quickly to himself, unthinkingly. A great shard of glass, jagged, the point as sharp as a spear’s.

Bard stabbed upwards just as Wotan redoubled his attack, descending on him. That piece of glass as long as a grown man’s hand slid right under a rib, piercing a lung.

With the glass stuck in him, Wotan gasped—breathless—then clasped Bard’s hand in his. Bard hissed as the glass cut into his palm. Wotan on his knees, Bard half lying down, the god had the shard pulled out just enough that he could make Bard drag the impromptu blade to cut an upturned halfmoon-shaped wound under his breast. Before Bard could understand what was happening, Wotan guided Bard’s hand further. He plucked the glass out from his left breast to draw another such cut under his right. To Bard’s horror, with nothing but a small grunt, Wotan finished the grim task, releasing Bard’s hand to stand over him, his cloak gone. The old wretch swayed on his feet, blood pouring down his sides.

Wotan waited patiently like a statue and Bard, shaking and sweating, could only utter, “Why?” The old god worked his lips and his jaw, chewing for a long half minute. It was as if Wotan would speak for the first time in centuries, crunching pebbles long lodged between his teeth.

“In his body,” he recited, “holy, hides the knowledge. Heavenly alchemy, transmutation.

“Spirit made man. God in flesh.”

Bard was stunned and continued where Wotan had stopped: “Woman, man. Within my body, I’m simply becoming.

“I wrote that,” Bard said in disbelief. Of all the things God could have said to him, never had Bard dreamt of having his own words recited. He continued, “They think I was born another. One nearly wished it so. All-father, inhabit your son.”

Bard fitted the pieces. Terrible parallels were drawn, reflections that could never be dispelled once scried in the dark glass of the world’s suffering.

“Hold not your secrets,” Bard recalled out loud, “I bleed at the foot of the tree.”  Bard turned the bloody shard on himself. “Half-blind.”

The pain was horrible beyond what he had imagined. The glass felt so cold it burned against the mush of Bard’s left eye, pale liquid and blood flowing out of his socket. Bard screamed as he dug with the glass and pulled out the mangled piece of himself. Before it hit the ground, a raven plucked the eye in its beak, mid-flight, and separated the thing from Bard completely.

Kindly, careful, Wotan took the glass from Bard’s hands, and caressed his wounded face. The bleed eased and the pain was numbed a bit. Man and God looked upon each other. Only time separated them as one became the other, one twilight closing its final chapter so the next could begin.

“I should have called her while I had the chance,” Bard said, tired and sad.

Wotan nodded, and held the back of Bard’s neck, and drew him nearer until their foreheads touched. The raven returned with a friend, and the pair flew in circles around the scene.

Once upon a time, Bard could have written a scene like this. He preferred poetry to prose, but his one dive into a novel had not been a complete failure. He had called it Your Body in Mine, and it had been full of dreams that blended with reality. 

He wondered if he was dreaming then.

Chapter Four

The wind carried the smell of rain, and far away he could hear a familiar rumbling. Bard picked a direction at random, walking until he recognized the part of town he had been left at. It was the old downtown; familiar homes, many of which falling to ruin, announced it long before Bard found a market square he hadn’t visited in years. There was a water fountain at the center, the source spraying from the bodies of pagan deities. Semi-naked figures held each other in a deep embrace, legs and arms wrapped in angles hard to follow.

Bard admired the one figure he recognized, Hermes, standing atop it, holding aloft his iconic staff. The symbol of alchemy and medicine, of knowledge brought from the gods. Fat water droplets began to fall the mark of rain, and in a flash of lightning, Bard blinked, and found the head of Hermes had moved to stare him down.

“No,” he laughed, uncaring of a couple passersby who rushed out of the coming rain. “It’s just my imagination.” Hermes lowered his arm and with his Caduceus pointed right at Bard; stone lips moved, unable to expel air or sound, to silently form words Bard could not hear.

“You’re not real. This isn’t real.” Bard walked backwards, nearly falling on his back. “Leave me alone!”

Another rumble, as the skies ran crisscross with lightning, and from the fountain rose all its water as a waterspout, circling higher and higher until it reached the very heavens, then added to the rain which hit with the might of fists. Bard tried to shield himself with his jacket but the wind stole what little protection he had until the winds nearly swept him away.

For a moment, Bard was a black-winged bird midflight.

Around him the clouds and rain billowed like a cloak, and above him was the great black shape of a hammer. From the massive open mouth blew a gale, and throwing Bard backways, flailing to the ground, it seemed the storm-head announced to the world the coming of the old gods.

But rather than a name, came the scream of a horse. A whining and neighing that drove 

Bard to run for his life, as the skies exploded with lightning and the buildings shook with the strength of the thunder. Projected upon and ahead of Bard was a misshapen shadow, far-reaching, with the hammering of an anvil the size of the world came sparks the size of harpoons, raining on the world of men.

Each scorching blast seemed to draw nearer, despite the next bolt always being a near miss. One piercing bolt of light hit close enough to scorch Bard’s hair, sparks flying in every direction as Bard turned a corner, nearly sliding to the ground, his shoulder thumping against the glass display of a shoe store.

Large as a titan, fully formed, came horrid Donar, a younger man astride his father’s horse, naked, slowly turning the corner with hammer in hand. His eyes and mouth expelled black clouds emitting thunder, and repeatedly he hit the ground and surrounding buildings with his hammer. More lightning came as he rode on a black cloud-horse with too many legs. On his shoulders hung a storm mantle weaved of the sky-symbols that morphed from one shape to another, crafted by the hand of Wotan and unreadable in the eyes of mortals, casting the enchantments with which Donar chased Bard.

Frigid winds blew, slowing Bard down. Nearly blind, he peeked between shadows and lights, and saw long lost forests. Bard was, for a moment, trapped between present and past. One moment he ran down alleyways, the next he was dodging massive trees, running away from Roman soldiers.

Bard would have gladly crossed to those other woods and dealt with a human menace rather than the godly one, if he had the chance, but the mirages were gone the moment he reached them, leaving behind only the frigid cold. Bard continued being pelted by rain and hail, freezing him to his bones as he reached the foothold of some edifice, too darkened by the storm for him to see clearly. Bard fell, managing to sit with his back to the gates of the building, staring into the eye of the god thing who gazed down at him as if he was both cathedral and lighthouse.

“Leave me alone! Leave me alone!” Bard screamed, driven mad with fright. “I don’t know you; I have nothing!” Donar raised his hammer to the skies, while the horse lunged forward towards Bard, who screamed and pushed himself against the gates.

He tried to escape in blind panic, wishing with his whole body he could squeeze through the metal bars of the gate that were digging into his back, until the gate swung inward, giving in to his weight. Bard fell past the threshold and into the building; without looking back, he turned and raced inside, past the double doors.

He was crouching with his hands on his knees once he made it to some sort of reception area. Warm artificially conditioned air, and artificial light that hurt his eyes, welcomed him from the chaos outside as the doors closed behind him. One last bolt cracked like a whip, shattering stone and filling the air with static. This lashing out and the roar of the cacophony were muffled by the thick walls.

“Hi,” greeted a jovial voice, blind or pretending to be blind to Bard’s distress. “Welcome to the War Museum. Would you like an audio guide?”

Drenched, swallowing dry, Bard stared the young woman in the eyes. He had been tempted to say something quite rude but held back his piece, stunned by her resemblance to his sister. The receptionist was much younger, but the resemblance to that memory Bard still held was baffling.

“No.” He swallowed again, regaining his breath, forcing the parts of his brain that helped him act and sound normal even when stressed out of his mind. “To be honest I hadn’t even noticed where I was going. The storm got so awful I just wanted out of it.”

The young receptionist seemed genuinely worried. “I hadn’t realized it got that bad; helps explain why things are slower than usual around here.” She stood behind a counter and pulled something for him. “Here, it’s not much but you can take this towel.” She winked. “No need to pay. No one’s been buying the things. Not sure why they thought people would buy these from the souvenir shop. No one’s picking the umbrellas either.”

Bard accepted the towel and thanked her. It was the second time in a short period he had received the kindness of strangers, and as counter to his nature it was to accept kindness from others, it would have done him no good to refuse.

“Since you’re here, spend some time looking around. You’ll dry up faster and be a little less bored while you wait for the storm to pass.” Bard was about to mention he had no money on him, when the receptionist anticipated the argument. “You don’t have to pay to enter. We’ll happily sell you stuff or accept a donation to help run the place. Just come back some other day to make up for today, if you feel like it.” She smiled. “We joke about it, given the museum’s theme. ‘War is for everyone’, we say.”

Bard laughed awkwardly at the joke, thanked the young woman again for her kindness, and headed further in while drying himself up.

Chapter Three

Sleep was blessed with the absence of thought and memory, thus free of pain. There was not even the sensation of falling through the air or breaking the water’s surface, nor the sinking into the dark lake.

Bard’s eyes opened only when he had hit the bottom, and he trudged through the muddy flats, lifting dust and untangling himself from the algae, stumbling more than swimming at random. Death had been short-lived. Bard’s lungs did not burn despite the seeming lack of air, yet he was compelled to escape the darkness.

Rather than finding his way to the surface, the upper world had come to meet him. He was met by the friendly woods and the shores of the lake he had been taken to with his sister in long gone summer days. There was no sound and he was met by his parents in their summer clothes—from the lake’s shore came running two young girls.

In the soundless mirage they splashed joyfully, cool spray rising to the darkened pits Bard had fallen to. Water within water, a memory within a lake, shown through a dream. Father mouthed something Bard could not hear but could guess; he crossed his arms and touched his own chest to feel the scars, two perfect half-moons.

He turned his back on the memory and walked on, dazed and more alone than before. Bard wasn’t lost for long—a storm came which stirred the waters and pelted him with rain and hail until he woke up.

“Genda?”

The figure looked more like death than it did the mysterious person from the bar, at least to a shaken, drowsy and beaten-up Bard. It was as if this figure was wrapped in a dark shroud, their pale face peeking from underneath the veil of shadow like a pale mask. A hairless face, which as Bard’s eyes adjusted, did resemble Genda’s.

“I’m Erinn. My sibling left you in my care.”

“Where?”

Erinn gestured to their surroundings. “Our perch. Genda couldn’t stay so I watched over you. It’s been a day since you were brought in.”

Bard fought back the nausea at the realization a whole day had been lost after he had been assaulted. Still wondering how close to death he had come he, felt his face and arms, his ribs, but despite feeling sore all over, he found no bruises, nor broken bones. He tried to sit and seemed unable to; Erinn reached out and helped him to sit, then to get out of the sofa.

This had been covered with sheets and pillows, making for an improvised nest. “Let’s get you to the backyard. Sunlight and fresh air will do you good.”

Bard at first felt blinded by the sun. As his eyes adjusted and he sat down again, he noticed they were surrounded by apartment buildings. It seemed Genda and Erinn must share a ground floor, or basement, open to the outside. Their backyard was shielded by the towering buildings, walled off by a waist-high concrete wall, and the stone-paved ground had a single tree standing at its center. Bard couldn’t tell what kind it was, only that it reached high into the sky with its many branches.

The yard was filled with bird song. Genda returned with a bowl of gruel that smelled of honey and nuts. “Here. It’s good for you.” The bowl was made of wood, as was the spoon. Bard was filled with impossible memories of long-gone homes and families that had once populated the countryside, and ate with gusto. His strength was soon restored, though the memories did not fully leave him.

If anything, the longer he stayed by that tree the more nostalgic he felt. He tried to pluck at the memories that did belong to him but found them hard to grasp.

“I have a sister,” Bard announced to no one in particular. “I dreamt of us when we were young. I haven’t spoken to her in a while.”

“Why’s that?” Despite asking the question, Bard felt there was a knowing look in Erinn’s eyes.

“Angelo. He did this to me. Things were different back then … well, I …” Bard closed his eyes and breathed slowly, trying to regain his calm. “He’s no good, to me or anyone else. My sister warned me; she was there for me through thick and thin.” Bard felt the familiar twin scars. “I don’t know if she understood me, but she loved me. I think I can see it now. Clearly, for the first time; Angelo tore us apart so I would be alone.”

“The cost of wisdom.” Erinn nodded. “Pain and many mistakes. We learn, eventually, don’t we?”

Bard shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I hate him and I don’t want to see him again. I want to talk to my sister, make amends.”

“You should do it then. Without hesitation, without compromise. Call her and she will come.”

“No.” Bard shook his head and regretted it, feeling dizzy again. “No. It’s not that easy. I don’t know if she’ll ever talk to me again.”

Erinn shook their head. “You never know when you’ll have the chance. I never forget a thing; some say I do nothing but dwell on the past. Someone must remember how things were, and I tell you why: to prevent others from repeating old mistakes.”

“You don’t understand. I appreciate the concern but you don’t know the full story.”

“You have told me enough. Mistakes were made but things have changed, or must change, or else end in tragedy. Don’t wait too long.” Erinn had brought tea which they both drank and felt soothed by. The bule was of cast black-iron, decorated with reliefs depicting birds in flight. “I must leave you now. You must make your own choices in order to move on, so remember my advice. You are not your past; your past is but the roots of the tree you are still growing, its branches reaching towards the heavens. Good luck.”

Bard was left alone then without further explanations or instructions, and unable to thank his host. He finished his tea and took the things to the kitchen sink. New clothes had been left for him, including a long coat which was most absolutely not his style. It could either be something fitting an old woman, or some cartoonish pimp, made of black fur, or perhaps feathers—Bard wasn’t sure which.

As garish as it looked, it was better than catching a cold. The weather had turned and he felt a chill sink into his bones that he desperately wanted to keep out. Wearing what he had been lent, or gifted, the keys to his own apartment and his wallet, much lighter now, left for him to pick up from a coffee table by the sofa, Bard found his way out of the apartment.